“Here, Dummy,” cried Mark, “run all the way to Master Rayburn, and tell him to come here directly.”
“Go to fetch Master Rayburn for him?” said the boy, staring.
“Yes, can’t you see he is wounded and burnt? Run, or I’ll go myself!”
Dummy, awed by this—to him—awful threat, dashed down the zigzag at a dangerous pace, while, at their young master’s orders, the two miners gently lifted and bore the insensible lad up to the castle, into the dwelling-house, and then to Mark’s chamber, where he was laid upon the bed.
As soon as he had dismissed the bearers, Mark began to bathe the lad’s temples, and in a few minutes he opened his eyes and stared wildly round.
“Where am I?” he said.
“Here: safe,” said Mark.
Recollection came back to the poor fellow’s swimming brain, and he threw his legs off the couch and tried to rise, but sank back with a groan.
“There: you can’t,” said Mark soothingly, and he took his hand. “Tell me—what’s happened? You didn’t see, because you’d fainted when I had you brought in, but we’re in trouble too. But I suppose you know. Were you going to help?”
“To help?” said Ralph faintly. “No; to ask for help. They took us by surprise. Our men wounded. Just at day-break. We were all asleep. They climbed in.”